


Hate Me Tomorrow

by Delightful_I_Am



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hurt, I'm Sorry, Self-Harm, Suicide, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 00:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8306416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delightful_I_Am/pseuds/Delightful_I_Am
Summary: Some things can never heal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm the worst. I'm so sorry.

"Stiles, where'd you get the bruise?"

Such a simple question. Stiles had looked at Derek, confused, before looking down to his ribs, noticing the mark on his pale skin. He poked at it, because he never could resist them; he'd winced at the sharp pain and turned back to Derek, shrugging and mumbling that he must have walked into something, before turning and jumping into the lake with Isaac, a laughing Lydia right behind them. The bruise takes longer than usual to go away, seeming to get a bit bigger before finally fading from the dark purple to the blue, the green, and finally the sickly yellow-brown; and then it's gone, his skin once again pale and smooth. It's forgotten.

It's summer, degrees are completed, graduations done, and Lydia thinks maybe he has a boyfriend; he's hinted at it. Nothing out of the ordinary, except she can't help but notice Stiles is wearing long sleeves, even though the day is scorching. She watches him all day, but can't see anything out of place with him; he's laughing with Scott, and teasing Derek. He's so perfectly _Stiles_ , and it just doesn't seem right. She asks him why he's got long sleeves on, today of all days. Not exactly her usual level of tact, but she's got the bit in her teeth now. He shakes his head and rolls them up, smiling at her like she's a child and he's humouring her.

"Where'd you get that bruise, Stiles?"

It's an ugly thing, high up his forearm, a rippling blemish that twists up to his elbow and under his sleeve. He looks at it like he's seeing it for the first time, runs his fingers over it and grins up at her. He tells her he'd fallen asleep at his desk, his arm twisted under him and pinned against the spine of a book. She gives him a searching look, but his face is open and earnest, and she can't find any indication of a lie; the werewolves don't seem to detect one, at any rate. She lets it go, and they don't speak of it again. She watches him in the days and weeks afterwards, the bruise getting darker and harsher against his skin before fading through the spectrum, fading back to his normal pale complexion.

They're at the cemetery, Isaac had needed to go to Allison's grave. Had needed to see Boyd and Erica's. He'd asked Stiles to go with him, and of course he'd gone; he still felt responsible for them all, Allison especially. For once Isaac had forgotten a scarf, and it was an uncharacteristically cold day. Stiles had unwrapped the scarf from around his own neck and help it out to Isaac, eyes never leaving the grave in front of them. Isaac took it, brushing away his tears and turning to thank him. He'd opened his mouth to say one thing, and had instead whispered another.

"Stiles, how did you get that bruise?"

Stiles, eyes still on the grave, had shrugged. He'd had a scarf on and gotten it caught on the door handle; he laughs then, survived possession and then nearly hangs himself on his own bedroom door. Classic Stiles. Isaac gives him a funny look, eyeing the angry mark on his neck. Isaac doesn't say anything, but it looks to him to be worse than it should, like there was more force applied than just getting caught for a moment on a door. Stiles grabs his hand and squeezes tight, talks about Allison and Erica and Boyd. The bruise is forgotten by the time the sun goes down and they go their separate ways.

Scott watches his friend, his brother, as he dances around the members of their pack. He's laughing and smiling and swaying with Lydia and Isaac, and even manages to get Derek out on the dance floor. Scott thinks he's not the only one watching Stiles, but he doesn't think anything of it, he's making a spectacle of himself after all. He loses track of him for a while. He's unconcerned until Stiles stumbles out of the bathroom, arm slung over the shoulder of a boy Scott vaguely recognises from high school. Stiles is laughing at something the other boy is saying, and when he turns to Scott, the flashing lights throw his features into sharp relief; the wide eyes, the upturned nose. And the high cheekbones with a new bruise blossoming under his eye.

"Stiles, what happened to your face?"

Fingers flutter across the mark, his face stretching into a grin. He'd walked into the bathroom and slipped. Hit his head on the sink. Not the first time, he assures Scott, certainly won't be the last. He winks and disappears back on to the dance floor, unaware of Scott calling Derek over; the concerned tilt to Lydia's head, Isaac's calculating stare. They don't see him again for a week or two, and by that time, nothing mars the soft skin of his cheek.

The Sheriff catches Stiles just out of the shower, he'd not seen him in a few days, late shifts at the station. Stiles is wiping his face with a towel, holds it in front of him as they talk. They laugh about the Sheriff's attempts to wrangle an unhealthy breakfast out of him. Stiles insisting that if he has bacon, he can't have maple syrup with his pancakes. It's as the Sheriff is leaving, Stiles turns back to the mirror, drops the towel and stares at his reflection.

"How'd you get that bruise, son?"

Stiles turns, a flicker of surprise suppressed almost before it appears. He looks down at his chest, the large bruise looking dark and painful after the hot water of the shower. A wry grin and an insistence that he fell while carrying a stack of books, the spine of one jabbed into him. It was nothing. Don't worry about it. The Sheriff frowns at him, tells him to be more careful. He heads downstairs and calls Scott, staring at the ceiling while he talks in hushed tones.

Stiles never seems to have time to himself these days. If it's not his dad and Scott sitting with him at meals, it's Lydia making him sit and let her plan his outfits for the week, painting his nails while they watch a movie. It's Isaac turning up at odd times with requests for research that he really could have done himself. Or it's Derek, climbing through his window late at night when he can't sleep. He never says anything, just sits and watches, waiting for him to fall asleep again. Stiles understands what they're doing, loves them for it; even if it won't make a difference. He manages to slip away.

"Stiles, what are you doing here?"

He's standing on a hill. A cliff really. And the pack is behind him, his dad with them, silent when Derek walks up to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. He smiles at them, looking at them all one by one. They get the feeling he's saying goodbye, but his heartbeat is steady, and there's an easy smile on his face. He looks happier than they've seen him in a while. He turns to Derek last, whiskey eyes staring into green. He steps out from Derek's touch, moving backwards just a pace. Derek watches him, cautious and confused. He goes to take a step forward, but stops when Stiles shakes his head slightly, a hand held out in front. He knows they don't believe the stories of his bruises. So he tells them. 

He tells them of intentionally walking into things, capitalising on his own inherent clumsiness, at first. He tells them how it merged into picking fights, purely for the physical reactions he knew he could force people to make. Tells them about how when he couldn't bring himself to involve other people anymore, he started to find things that could inflict the pain he needed. He doesn't look at them as he speaks, choosing instead to talk to his own shoes, at his toes scuffing the dirt and grass under him. He doesn't need to look at them to see the hurt on their faces, see the way Lydia has Isaac's hand clasped in hers, how Scott is on his knees because he found them not up to the task of keeping him standing. The Sheriff a step behind Scott, a hand on his shoulder and tears in his eyes. And Derek is looking at him like he's watching his family burn all over again. When Stiles finishes speaking he looks up at Derek, that smile still on his face, his shoulders relaxed.

"Well then. Now you all know, I suppose there's nothing else for it."

He sees the confused expressions on his friends, on his  _family's_ faces, and for just a moment, the hope behind them all makes his pleasant mask slip, just for a second. Derek's heart lurches and he stumbles forward, hand reaching out, aiming for an arm or a piece of shirt, but instead finds empty air. Faster than them all, Stiles pushes himself backwards off the cliff, almost seeming to hover for a moment, before he's gone and his family is screaming. He closes his eyes against the image of them all leaning over the edge, hands grasping for something forever out of reach. The small smile still on his face.

There's no chance for a new bruise to form.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for everything. I just couldn't seem to get this idea out of my head.


End file.
